


Five Vignettes

by Dogwood



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emprise du Lion, Gen, Skyhold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 05:47:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5773672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dogwood/pseuds/Dogwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of small, pre-Trespasser moments from a variety of character perspectives, all within the same timeline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Vignettes

His hands were stained a shocking vermilion by the time he’d finished grinding the chalk-soft stone from the Approach. The resulting pigment had worked its way under his nails and settled into the folds of his palms, a familiar and welcome sensation, smooth and powdery against his skin. There was always a need for that particular hue, he thought, mouth a thin line.

Solas tapped the red orange into an envelope of waxed paper and set it amongst others of its kind, lined neatly in a simple wooden chest. Each square of folded paper a different pigment, each pigment a souvenir from months of travel. Cool blues and verdant greens from the Graves, earthy browns from Hinterlands, a melancholy ochre from Haven - even a rich violet he’d purchased from Val Royeaux - an experiment, really, to see if he could reproduce the color with his own recipe.

Above him, high in the tower, the usual sounds - the scrape of a chair, purposeful footfalls against stone, and higher still, in the rookery, the rustling of indignant feathers and the low reassurances of the bird’s caretaker. 

He sighed, lowering the lid of the chest, letting the heavy latch fall into place with a satisfying metallic click.

*****

Outside the standard issue tent, Sera can hear the low roar of the blizzard beginning, bending the silhouettes of snow laden pines and howling against the nearby cliff face. Even now, the outpost is being engulfed by drifts of snow in the darkness. Emprise du Lion hasn’t exactly welcomed them with open arms.

“Maker’s _balls_ , that’s cold!”

Blackwall stomps the snow from his boots as he enters, then turns to tie the canvas snugly closed. 

“Everyone’s just said to hell with dinner, near as I can tell, so if you want to eat tonight it’ll have to be from your pack.”

Sera, curled up in her bedroll, knees to her chest and still donning her outerwear, sounds a low note of protest. There’s nothing but nuts left in her pack, and even then, they’re all scattered about, loose and dusty, having escaped the confines of their small sack. She’d rather go hungry than start picking through shells with frozen fingers.

“This place is stupid.”

“I’ll not disagree with you there.”

She can hear him remove his sword belt and place it next to the rolled up horse blanket he’s using for a pillow. She hears the creak of leather, and like her, he seems to forgo removing his cloak, keeping close about him as he climbs into bed.

“And here I was thinking Skyhold was nippy.” 

“What if I have to pee?” Sera lifts her head, watching Blackwall as he shifts under a too thin blanket. He laughs in reply, a quick bark of a thing, then rolls onto his side, away from her. “Then I’d say it’s been a pleasure serving with you, and when we find you, frozen in a squat tomorrow, I’ll tell the others not to laugh.”

“Arse. …I hate this place.” Sera pulls the scratchy weave of her hood over her eyes.

The tent is soon quiet, Blackwall’s breathing finding a slow, even rhythm, though if she strains, she can just hear the edges of a low conversation happening the next tent. She’s still trying to listen, to piece together the voices when sleep pulls her under, far away from the snow drifts and gnawing hunger and the makeshift village of tents.

*****

It felt strange to see the hall so deserted. With all the visiting dignitaries asleep in their beds (or the beds of new friends) and the servants thanklessly wrapping up the last of their duties in the kitchen below, Cullen had yet to see the space so still.

A full cup of wine in hand, hardly sipped, he looked around the room and picked out a spot for himself along one of the long banquet tables, back to the wall. Someone had been having some sort of games night by the look of it. There was a board out, the jet black pieces scattered amongst empty cups, and an overturned deck of patterned Orlesian cards a little too near a dripping candle.

With mild interest, he picked up the deck and turned it over. And stared.

Surprisingly delicate, yet shockingly frank depictions of the adventures of young chevaliers seemed to be the theme of the deck. In one, some sort of desire demon lay against a mossy log, her backside (among other things) in full view. The young chevalier’s face was covered by a mask, but Cullen could guess at the man’s expression - similar to his own, perhaps, brows pushed suddenly upwards. In another drawing, two young men were in the company of a single young elf, lovingly handled in a number of respects.

Cullen glanced around the still silent room, hastily inspected a few more cards, then cleared his throat and pushed the cards to the other side of the table, face down. His wine, previously untouched, was quickly swallowed.

*****

Typically, Vivienne had her breakfasts brought to her, so it was notable, Lavellan thought, to see the woman seated at the end of the long communal table in the main hall. Notable too was her morning companion, Dorian, sitting across from her, speaking animatedly, as usual. Between them sat a small, newly crafted crate, clearly Orlesian in origin, its packing straw littered on the table between them.

Curiousity tugged at her, and so Lavellan made her way across the long room - empty save the servants cleaning away the breakfast plates - and nodded a greeting to the mages. “Special delivery?" she asked, fully expecting to see a box full of rare magical tomes, but when she peered inside she was met with a collection of small glass bottles, bars of soap and the almost overwhelming scent of flowers and spices.

"Did you know that Vivienne has her own perfumer? The fact that we haven’t put this man to work already is a great injustice of our time,” Dorian said by way of greeting, giving a frosted bottle a sniff. “Exquisite.

"There is value in keeping some things to yourself, my dear,” Vivienne said, pulling away the silver cloth on a bar of purple soap and putting it just under her nose. “Orchid, interesting.”

In truth, she’d never noticed anything wrong with the soap at Skyhold, it was simply soap. Sometimes it carried with it notes of ash and fir tree, but it was hardly unpleasant, and to be expected seeing as it was made of their immediate mountain surroundings. Lavellan reached for the nearest bottle, the glass cool against her fingertips. “May I?”

Vivienne gestured for her to proceed. “By all means, dear. Far be it for me to deny you.”

The little bottle, once uncorked, revealed its contents in a subtle, gentle wave of spring peonies. It was surprisingly understated, even alluring, in its own way. “This is… beautiful,” she said, turning the bottle in her slim fingers.

Dorian, on the other hand, had suddenly found much to disagree with. "Ugh, no, send this one back. It smells like a pumpkin patch. Gone rotten.” Another tentative sniff. “That the farmer shat upon.”

His companion was unfazed. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand the nuances of Orlesian tastes, just as I wouldn’t hope to understand many of your Tevinter tastes.”

Brows lifted, Lavellan was considering asking Dorian for his bottle when the quiet, pleasant sound of Solas’ feet against the stone floor turned her head, and all thoughts of soap were forgotten. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, setting the glass bottle down gently next to the others.

She had enough self awareness to note the quick look exchanged between the seated figures, but there was nothing to be done about it. She left them to their verbal volleying and followed the slim figure towards the main door, the  
beginnings of warm smile already forming at the corners of her mouth.

*****

A small cloud of red drifted from the submerged shirt, pulled into eddies and tugged downstream, away from Varric’s bare feet. There were allowances made for grime and grit while on the road, and even a certain tolerance for unpleasant smells, but brain spattered outerwear stepped over even the most generous line.

He gave the shirt a twist, wringing out the last of the rust color, then straightened and glanced towards the rocky shore. 

“And they laughed at me for wearing red in the woods.”

Solas’ gaze darted upwards, long enough to register the dwarf shaking out his laundry in the shade dappled stream, then returned to his own washing, working sand over his fingers, scrubbing out the ink that threatened to stain his slender fingers a muted purple brown. 

“It seems to be one of their favorite distractions - good of you not to deny them.”

“How could I!” Varric started towards the river bank, picking his way across stones slick with algae, deftly avoiding their loose cousins. “They’ve already given me three new character ideas and Vivienne herself said something so good this morning I had to stop and write it down. Those two are literary gold.” 

He paused, and the sound of running water filled the silence. “Literary might be a bit much.”

Content with the state of his hands, Solas stood, offering one to Varric as he navigated around an unsteady piece of shale. 

“On a sliding scale, how much shit would I be in with you if I use that owl to dry my shirt on?”

Turning in place, Solas blinked in the direction of the ancient listing statue, wings outspread, catching the last of the afternoon light.

“Zero, assuming your sliding scale operates on numbers.”

“Good enough for me!”


End file.
